Fires
by A Sweet Catastrophe
Summary: The last night in Ishval; fires to extinguish and fires to kindle.
1. Celebratory Fires

**Author's Note**: This story was written as a birthday present for my friend Zeyd (VengefulNoob). Unfortunately, it ended up being a lot longer than I anticipated so although his birthday was the 19th of December, it is still unfinished. However, because of the length, I decided to start posting it in sections defined by every time there is a shift in perspective so the length of each chapter will vary a lot. It's essentially a big one-shot. Enjoy.

If my story "Trials" was the conclusion of some large Royai idea, this story is the beginning.

* * *

><p><em>And I shot<em>

_And I hit_

_And things I can't live with are pushing me harder to grow_

_But had I not been through this_

_I would not be a witness_

_To a strength many can't claim to know._

_- "Stand to Attention" by Bitter Ruin_

Fires

The dancing bonfire before her did nothing to warm her but was quite triumphant at providing a distraction; somewhere to look that was not at the current state of the desert around her. She tried to block out the joyous, inebriated cries of her comrades as they downed beer by the case like they were trying to drink the entirety of the Stray Dog Company's shipments and they truthfully probably were. It would make packing tomorrow morning much easier with fewer supplies to pack. Out of the corner of her eye she could see men, forsaking uniform to the extremes of bare chests and sometimes even pantlessness as they shouted out nonsense about victory or, less nauseatingly, about going home.

Home for her was currently an apartment she shared with her friend Rebecca on the base where their military school was located. It was cramped, had a strange odor when they moved in, and was often messy with Rebecca's things but it sounded like heaven compared to here.

The war had made her feel ill when she first arrived in Ishval, she could actually remember throwing up on more than one occasion when her commanding officer's back was turned, but after a while she grew numb to everything she saw. While she worked, a kill was as meaningless as a short homework assignment: no sense of accomplishment, no need to keep track of how many, get it done and move on to the next. It wasn't until something new and outside of the routine raised that she had to reevaluate her feelings and would find herself feeling sick again. The last new thing had been seeing Roy Mustang destroying city blocks with her father's flame alchemy. The scene around her was the latest.

She knew she was supposed to be happy that the war was over and, on a personal level, she was glad she would be leaving Ishval tomorrow, but there was no success to be had here. The so-called win by Amestris was the result of thousands of Amestrians, for Ishvalans are also Amestrian, dying at the hands of their own countrymen. They weren't dying for a country or its people for those things were really the same on both sides; they were dying over opinions on a government. The side one fought on didn't even indicate their opinion on the situation for the blame was pinned on ethnicity and ancient culture.

_The Ishvalans were right in their outrage and the government stubbornly refused to admit it._

_And yet, I fired my gun for the government_.

"Hey Hawkeye," A voice to her right said calmly. For a second her mind didn't register the voice as anyone's but his but then she realized how unlikely that was. The last place he would be right now is near a fire.

She lifted her head to look at the man sitting next to her: Sergeant Lancer, a fellow sniper who she had spent a lot of long hours with in towers. She was thankful that by his tone and gloomy expression he didn't seem to be partaking in the partying either although he was lacking his uniform jacket. She could understand though: it was refreshing to feel relieved of duty. She had taken hers off too but had still covered up with her white coat as she didn't have the alcohol in her veins to fight off the chill of the desert at night.

"You did a really great job out there," he said with genuine respect.

"Thank you," she answered, her voice sounding so much quieter than she was expecting.

He held out a bottle to her that looked like some sort of hard liquor.

"I'm fine," she said, dismissing the bottle. She didn't have a taste for straight liquor and even if she did, she would have refused. She wanted to be fully in control of her behavior that night even if a bit of liquid courage was a slightly tempting sentiment.

"I'm not saying you should run around with those drunken loons but you can't just sit and watch the fire all night," Lancer insisted. He wasn't too much older than her but his military experience far exceeded hers and his words held a sense of acquired knowledge.

_She had to do it_.

"I've been watching fires too long already," she said, standing up, no longer talking to him but to herself. "May as well put one out."

Lancer looked confused at her statement but simply shrugged his shoulders as he took a swig from his bottle, his eyes drifting towards the flames.

"I guess that's the spirit," he said dubiously.

Riza stood up and walked out of the semicircle of people gathered around the fire, looking out at the stretch of desert before her. There were tents, some pitched and some collapsed, other bonfires, people running, empty bottles, people laying face down in the sand: another warzone.

She hoped he hadn't succumbed to the revelry but she knew he hadn't.

She walked slowly but purposefully across the field trying to block out the drunken shouting, side-stepping around broken glass and discarded clothing, until his tent was in sight. It was much smaller than the ones that housed groups of enlisted men and separated from the pack to indicate his status. Now it also happened to be fortunately located in a quieter area of the celebration.

She walked around the side of the tent and could hear talking within. He was busy with someone. What she had to do was important but there was no way she was going to interrupt him. The matter was private and her reputation amongst the military was in very high standing at the moment, particularly for a female soldier. One small infraction such as approaching an officer's tent at night, though misinterpreted, could ruin her career. Military men were not known for keeping secrets amongst each other, especially where women were concerned.

She moved away from the tent, far enough that it would not look too much like she was waiting for him but close enough that she could keep a watch out for his guest's departure.

_Keeping a close eye on things is what I'm known for after all, isn't it?_ She thought bitterly, running her fingers through the sand and letting it slip through her fingers.

After 15 minutes of sitting on the ground, running scenarios over and over in her head of how she was going to approach the matter when she could speak to him, she could see the silhouette of someone stumbling from his tent and walking shakily in her direction.

"Hawkeye!" the man shouted, his face slowly coming into view as he waved at her, his dark hair mussed and his glasses slightly askew.

"Captain Hughes," she said, standing up respectfully. Habit told her she should salute him but she overcame the instinct; Hughes was practically a friend now and this wasn't really a night for formalities.

He stopped in front of her and let his eyes drift sluggishly to the scene behind her. He knitted his brows in distain.

"Inappropriate," he muttered. Riza could smell the alcohol on his own breath. Clearly, he had not been drinking for the same reasons as the men he was judging.

"I try to just think of it as them celebrating going home," Riza offered.

"Home," he said gently like he had never heard the word before. "It remains the same but it's different now."

Riza nodded solemnly. For a man who was visibly drunk he sounded surprisingly clear to her. As appealing as the idea of returning home sounded, going back there, having to face all the people she knows who don't understand what had happened here . . . maybe staying in desert would be easier. She knew a part of herself would never leave anyway.

"I'm proposing to my girlfriend," Hughes said matter-of-factly, finally looking at her directly. He thought for a beat and pointed at her. "You should come to the wedding."

"Send me an invitation. I would be happy to go," Riza answered evenly, unsure if he would remember this conversation tomorrow. He had already mentioned proposing to his girlfriend a few times before when he was sober but this was the first time he had said anything about her coming to the wedding.

"Are you going to see Roy?" he asked a bit louder and more enthusiastically than she would have liked. Luckily, no one around seemed to notice.

Before she could answer, and she really didn't know how she would, he threw an arm over her shoulders in an avuncular gesture and leaned in so that he was whispering in her ear: "I'm glad. You're the one he needs now."

His cryptic comment startled her and she was unable to hide the small jump of her shoulders at the thought that he might have been talking about her to Hughes. But what could he need her for? How much did Hughes know?

She was about to ask him what he meant when he removed his arm from her shoulder and stumbled off in the direction of his own tent, shouting out an almost sing-song, "Goodnight!"

She watched Hughes walk away, tripping over a bottle but regaining himself fairly well, and then turned around to face his tent. There was a noticeable glow within from a lantern and as she moved closer, she could see the faint shadow of him pacing back and forth across the small space.

_I shouldn't beat around the bush_, she thought to herself. _It will be done and then I will no longer carry this burden and then I can use the rest of the night to decide where to go from here._

Slowly she reached for the door flap of his tent and bent it back enough to reveal her face.

"Excuse me," she said, trying to sound strong but the words coming out almost in a whisper.

He was startled, jumping slightly when he heard her and then lifting his head up towards her and squinting.

"Riza?"

Her resolve halted at the sound of that name, so foreign to her now. For nearly the last four years she has been Hawkeye or Cadet Hawkeye. Riza was another person, a shy but emotionally strong girl who cloistered herself from the world and spent all her time working to support herself and her father, cleaning the dilapidated estate they lived in, and studying alone to keep up her education. She was Hawkeye now. She thought she had made the transition after a few weeks in military school but she truly became her after her first kill and she was terrified that it would be a while before she could ever find Riza again.

But the fact was, at the sound of the name a flood of emotions came to her of a life she once knew. When she had encountered him on the battlefield the first time he hadn't referred to her as anything but "you" and only called her Cadet or Hawkeye when not speaking to her directly. She had adapted to the new titles fine when talking to him but she could tell he wasn't yet comfortable with her calling him "sir" or "Major." But for her to hear that name, especially from him, it reminded her that he was the only one who knew who she was before: that hard-working but quiet girl who had secretly harbored such affection for him that he never knew about.

She took a moment to compose herself and try to push back the memories.

_I am Cadet Hawkeye and he is Major Mustang_.

"It is not appropriate to call me that, sir," she said, walking into the sparsely furnished tent. In spite of him having far nicer and more private quarters than your average enlisted man, the place itself was still far from cozy. It seemed to only contain a cot, a small desk with a box and cushion for a chair, and an overturned crate for a side table upon which there was only a dimly burning lamp that lit up his tired face, a pair of ignition gloves, and an empty bottle of whiskey.

He sat on the edge of the bed, looking up at her as she entered: dark hair mussed, bags under his eyes from not having a proper sleep since arriving there, wearing just an undershirt and uniform pants but no shoes.

"Traditional protocol has been dropped tonight if you haven't noticed. And besides, no one heard me," he said apathetically. "So to what do I owe this pleasure?" he asked, without a touch of joy. It almost sounded like something he would have said back when he was a teenager but the smile that would have accompanied the question was nowhere to be found.

She wanted to answer immediately but her eye had been caught by the empty bottle of whiskey on his nightstand and she couldn't stop staring at it. Hughes had been drunk. If he had been drinking too there was no way he could do what she would ask of him.

"Have you been drinking?" she asked bluntly without answering him, her eyes still clearly trained on the bottle, unable to look at him directly yet.

He turned around to see where she was looking.

"Hughes drank most of that. I only had some of it and that was hours ago," he clarified, curiosity edged in his voice as to why his state of sobriety was so important. He didn't have any orders to give until morning and she wasn't even under his command. It should have been clear to her by the fact that he was cooped up in his tent instead of outside celebrating or stumbling around that he was not intoxicated, but he was a sad drinker anyway. Not that she would have known. He left the Hawkeye estate before he could legally drink and had never really indulged until he got to the military academy.

She stepped a bit closer to him in order to get a better look at him, finding no traces of alcohol in his visage. She nodded in confirmation and stood up a bit straighter. She forced herself to look frankly at him as she spoke so he would understand the severity of the matter.

"Do you remember what I said in the field today?" she asked, her amber eyes boring into his dark ones, almost challenging him to feign forgetfulness. He looked away from her stare and down at his hands hanging limply between his legs.

"Yes," he answered, his voice low and somber.

She took a deep breath.

"You made me a promise," she said, hoping she wouldn't have to explain much further.

He remained silent for what felt like hours but was actually just seconds. He knew what he had promised her but he didn't want to have to face it; especially not so soon. He had taken off his gloves the second they announced that the war was over and had been afraid to touch them since. Even just walking past the bonfires outside of his tent had been a painful reminder.

"I know this is sudden," she started, anticipating his response, "but I'm going to be going back to school after this and you'll be returning to some city office and who knows when we will see each other again. I can't wait. I need these secrets to die among the mess they created." She let out a breath and felt her strength crumbling. She was prepared to beg him if she had to.

"If I have to go back to the real world, please don't make me have to take them with me; not after this," she murmured, unshed tears behind her eyes that she refused to let fall in front of him. She wouldn't let him see her tears when her father died, back when she was still Riza, and she certainly wasn't going to let him see her cry now.

With a heavy sigh, he pressed his hands to his face, covering his eyes and propping his elbows on his knees. He couldn't say no. If he had to put on the gloves again while still here among the ruins of Ishval at least it was as a small favor to her, the absolute least he could do to help alleviate some of the guilt she felt that he was to blame for.

"Okay," he said finally, standing up and turning to her. "I'll need to go get some supplies from the medic's tent because I don't have everything I need here. Do you mind waiting?" he asked, gesturing to the bed.

She shook her head and took a seat as he crouched down in front of her and looked under the bed, pulling out a bottle similar to the one on his nightstand.

"It's probably not to your tastes but you should have some to take the edge off," he said handing her the bottle as he stood up to his full height. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

She watched him shove his feet into his boots without giving a care to the laces or the protective spats and leave the tent with a loud flutter of the door flap. She looked down at the bottle in her hands. She wasn't a fan of whiskey. Regardless, she twisted off the top and took a considerable gulp, feeling it burn all the way down as she scrunched up her face. Spotting a canteen next to the bed, she grabbed it and took a sip of water to alleviate some of the heat that still lingered.

_Two more drinks and then I'll stop_, she promised herself.

By the time she had repeated the process twice she could feel a slight haziness in her head but nothing that affected her to any notable degree. It certainly wouldn't numb the pain like it was supposed to. The blurry feeling was coupled with warmth in her chest that was really the opposite of what she needed.

She stood up and took off her shoes and coat just as he reentered the tent, a large bucket of what sounded like water under one arm, two cloths covered in plastic (one very large and one small) and a tube of some sort of ointment in his other hand. If he was going to honor her request to destroy her entire back, it didn't look like he had enough supplies.

He didn't say anything at first as he kicked off his boots and took the canteen she had been drinking out of off the bed and filled it with water from the bucket, setting it down on the ground. He then took the large cloth and laid it down on the bed, covering up about two thirds of the whole surface, and removed his pillow so she would have more space without things getting in the way. He worked with extreme care and slowness that was making her impatient and tense.

He finally stood up and looked at her, his face reddening to match her own alcohol-induced color.

"If you wouldn't mind situating yourself," he said, respectfully turning away from her and the bed to face the opposite wall.

Her hands suddenly unsteady, she crossed her arms in front of her in order to slowly take off her tank top, folding it and placing it carefully on the floor next to her coat. She then reached around her back to undo her bra letting that fall off her shoulders as well, realizing now that she will probably have to forego wearing one after this until the wounds are healed. She knelt down and put it under her coat so he wouldn't see it, that sense of childish embarrassment and modesty still lingering in her from her youth.

She crawled onto the bed, placing herself on the cloth as he had most likely intended her to lay, her back positioned in the center of it, and gripped onto the underside of the metal frame of the cot in preparation.

"Are you done?" he asked when he couldn't hear her moving around anymore.

"Yes," she answered tentatively, moving a bit to make sure that she was positioned in a way that would cover her front.

She felt rather than heard him take a seat on the edge of the bed so that he could lean over her and inspect the area before doing anything to it. She felt like telling him that it was no use and that one sizable blast would be sufficient so she could be done with this as soon as possible but she couldn't bring the words to form. She could see out of the corner of her eye the way he studied the tattoo on her back with sad fascination, regret evident there the same way it had been the first time he saw it, only this time it wasn't out of pity for what had been done to her but out of his own personal shame. She wanted to tell him something comforting but nothing would come.

"Can I touch you?" he asked softly, soothingly. She had to stifle a shiver that ran down her spine. Those feelings she once had for him when she was a foolish teenager had never completely left in spite of all the years of not hearing from him. If only he had said "it" instead of "you." The last time they had been in this position four years ago he had phrased it the same way and she had felt the same shiver.

"Yes."


	2. Clearing Fires

_She gave me this in trust_, he lamented internally, his dark eyes looking without seeing. _She thought I would do something good in the military and instead I killed thousands of innocent people. None of this is fair to her: not the tattoo and its burden nor my betrayal and her undeserving guilt._

_But it really is beautiful_, he thought as he raised his hand above the delicate slope of her back. The thought Master Hawkeye had put into exactly how to display his life's work was clear in the design. It almost made him wonder morbidly how long he had spent planning exactly what kind of a mark he would make on his daughter, exactly how to place it and what to use to make it. It was so perfectly constructed to hold the secrets to flame alchemy in a way only an experienced alchemist could understand, one who had gone through training in ancient technique, practice, and the language of the words and symbols. And it was still aesthetically pleasing, to his eye at least. He wasn't sure if it was a bias as an alchemist that made him think that or something a bit more instinctual.

He ran his fingers over her skin, feeling gooseflesh rising in their wake. He wasn't quite sure how the tattoo had been made but either way it had to have been painful, at least as painful as the removal of it was going to be.

He wondered if it had been done in ink. That would have taken so many months to complete unless Hawkeye had found a faster method than a single needle, poking and prodding every day until it was finished. If it was ink was there some more convenient and less excruciating alchemic way that he could simply separate it from her skin?

No. It was red in color. It seemed more likely that it had been done with the very methods it told of. But such detail had to require separate sessions. Of course, he knew never to underestimate his teacher and that it very well could have been one spectacular reaction that created the whole thing. Besides, his minimal experience in medical alchemy meant that even if he were to attempt to remove ink from her skin, even as an experiment, it would more likely result in unnecessary pain and complications for her and he wasn't willing to take the risk.

His fingers strayed from the tattoo to her unmarked skin that lay just south of the design, pale from being hidden by uniforms, softer than he would have guessed, beautiful like the tattoo, perhaps even more so. He knew he couldn't begin to understand how much trouble this secret had caused her, what normal things it had prevented her from. Even if your average person would be unable to read it, it was unfeasible to think that she could have shown it to someone else without getting a million questions she wouldn't or couldn't answer. He wondered bitterly if Master Hawkeye had even considered this before turning her into his notebook. Even after he destroyed it, she would still have a large burn there that would raise questions, but perhaps ones that would be easier to answer with lies or vague responses about a terrible accident.

He realized his mind was wandering from his task and he went back to considering how he would handle fulfilling her request. He could use one large blast, cover the whole tattoo into a messy scar that she can claim she got during the war and still technically tell the truth. That was probably what she would prefer. But even with the skill he had built up in the art of burning flesh, the thought turned his stomach and he had to take a deep breath; he wasn't sure if that would be the safest idea. He found himself staring at that smooth patch of unmarked skin again and realized that he wanted to preserve as much of her back as he could manage.

He looked closely at the language inscribed around the transmutation circle in the middle, reading what was written.

_The upper left hand corner._

That was where the bulk of the imperative information was written. Other parts of the pattern were just basic laws most alchemists knew by heart or writing musing on the mystery of fire but that corner held the explicit explanation of the practice, how to actually perform the alchemic reaction by means of converting the proper materials. If he were to mar that one corner and only that, then the secrets would effectively be destroyed. Even the center transmutation symbol means nothing without the understanding provided in that one quadrant.

He was going to ask which she would prefer, just the vital portion or the whole tattoo, he really was, but as he reached over to his nightstand and grabbed an ignition glove, he knew it would be hard enough to get one small blast from his fingers let alone one big enough to burn the entire tattoo. He would try for the whole tattoo but he prayed that if he didn't succeed that she would not be upset with him for not following her request faultlessly.

His work hadn't all just been burning down city blocks, alienated from the people in them. The time spent with Dr. Knox in the dirty lab they had forced them into in the name of science where he burned captured Ishvalans as a means of studying the effects of the injuries had taken a great toll on his mind and sitting this close to her, having to do the same thing, only brought him back there.

He swore he would never direct his flames at an innocent person again and here he was preparing for just that.

He knew she could hardly be called "innocent", she had killed many people too just as he had, but in spite of him knowing her to now be Cadet Hawkeye he could still see Riza behind her killer's stare and her rough hands. If anything, the reason she was who she was now could be attributed to his influence, his stupid dreams that he shared with her over her father's grave when he should have been protecting her and making sure she would be okay. He owed her a whole new life but all she asked was for this secret to be unusable. He would do anything to make her feel better and if he had to force himself to hurt her to do that then the ends would have to justify the means, just once.

He slid the glove onto his hand, feeling the ignition fabric scrape his skin in a way that was becoming all too familiar, and poised his fingers at the ready.

"Should I count to three?" he asked carefully.

"Just do it when you're ready," she answered, confidence finally entering her voice even though she was now visibly trying to keep herself from shaking.

He focused: _a blast powerful enough to distort and scar but not enough to permanently injury, not enough to need the medic_.

_As if I could explain that one_.

_No. Focus_.

Sweated beaded on his forehead as he concentrated, coming to a total understanding of what would be done but having trouble getting his reluctant fingers to make their move.

Finally they shifted, sloppily creating a spark and he realized at the last second that not only was the blast not large enough to cover the whole tattoo but was focused more on the upper left area than the center as he had predicted.

He didn't have time to worry about his failure however as he heard Riza cry out in pain and he knew he would be unable to try it again; not after hearing that heart-wrenching sound.

He grabbed the canteen from the floor and poured the cold water over the wound, hearing her whimper at the sensation as she burrowed her head into the mattress.

He wanted nothing more than to pick her up off the bed and hold her, apologizing vigorously until he was sure she could forgive him but that would solve nothing and it certainly wasn't what she wanted from him. It would only soothe his own mind. What was important now was her well-being, her back, and whether or not she was satisfied with what he had done.

Clenching his eyes shut for a moment of equanimity, he reached down for the bucket and plastic-covered cloth that the medic had said was specifically designed for burns.


	3. Clandestine Fires

She was shaking, trying to find some relief from the wound on her back, her eyes and mouth clenched tightly. Finally she found purchase as the cloth she had seen earlier was gently placed over the burn and she hissed.

"Too much pressure?" he choked out, his voice thin and fluctuating in volume as if it took effort to push each syllable out.

She shook her head, unable to will herself to speak yet.

He was mute after that as he worked circumspectly, dabbing the cold cloth over the burn, pouring more water, and then applying the cloth again. The water he poured dripped down her sides onto the pad protecting the bed, designed so that the water would then roll off the protective covering and onto the floor. The puddles that formed with every splash of water were starting to become visible to her out of the corner of her eye and she was almost dreading the time when he would run out of water. The really strong pain of the initial few minutes after the event had ceased but in between times when there was something cold against her skin, the area felt incredibly hot and she could almost feel it pounding with a second heart. But as the ache decreased she started to think clearer and realized that the pain was concentrated only around her left shoulder blade. There was no way he had gotten the whole thing.

"I only managed to burn a portion of the tattoo," he admitted as if he was reading her mind. "But it was the section that had all the really important information. The secrets to flame alchemy are gone," he paused poignantly, as if it just occurred to him what this meant. "If you want, I could try again," he offered weakly.

She thought over what he had just said. If the tattoo was now useless, then there wouldn't really be any reason to destroy the rest. She got what she needed even if it wasn't exactly what she had asked for and she really didn't want to have to go through that pain again on her whole back when she could now see that this burn would be a lot to contend with.

His tone and phrasing were not lost on her. He was practically a perfect shot with the flame alchemy. If he had missed, it wasn't because the target was too difficult to aim for; he had obviously faced bigger challenges. The problem was that the target was too difficult to shoot at, a feeling she could guiltily relate to. She knew he would have a hard time putting the gloves on again so shortly after the war had ended and she knew that if she really wanted a perfectly marred back she could have found another way or waited until some time had passed and tracked him down later to perform the task. But in her mind, this had been the only answer. It had to be him and it had to be here.

"No, this is fine," she said, finding her voice though coarse and thin.

He poured water on the burn in reply and she exhaled relief.

"I'm running out of cold water. How do you feel? Do I need to get more?" he asked, passing the cloth over it.

"I'm fine," she said. She honestly did want more water but all that would really do at this point is prolong the inevitable. She knew she had to adjust to the painful, uncomfortable heat it produced eventually.

She closed her eyes as he kept working, the touches of the cloth moving from methodical to gentle as he utilized the last of the water supply. The cloth was then removed and replaced with his fingers, rubbing the soothing ointment the medic had supplied him with into the burn. She could almost think of it as a kind of massage now that the ache of the burn was no longer unrelenting. In her haze she almost missed realizing that he was no longer applying treatment to her burn and was instead running his fingertips down her back with the same care he had used when treating the burn. She sighed quietly to herself in remembrance of how her teenage self would imagine what it would be like to be touched with such care by Roy Mustang. That Riza never would have imagined it would be for a reason like this.

Suddenly, his touch disappeared and she felt the cot shift as he stood up. She turned her head to the side and eyed him walking over to the other side of the tent with his back to her. She watched him as he rubbed his face with his hands, saying nothing for several minutes but visibly breathing heavily.

"Mustang?"

It was the only title she could think to use. She couldn't bring herself to call him "Roy" as she wasn't sure if he really was the Roy she knew anymore and even when she was younger her father had requested that she call him "Mr. Mustang", possibly to emphasize the age difference between them or at least the station difference between them in his mind. The alternative of calling him by his rank or "sir" seemed too impersonal after everything that had happened that night.

She sat up in concern, letting the cloth on her back fall off the cot, and walked over to his stationary form.

"I told your father I would protect you," he said quietly, morosely. "You were always such a good person and I just . . . I took those secrets and told you naïve things and . . . I didn't try to track you down to make sure you were okay . . . I was too distracted and I knew you'd be fine without my help . . . and heck, even when I was at the academy I barely wrote back to you . . . and now I've ruined you. I was selfish . . . and now the best girl, no, woman I ever met has had her life destroyed because of my ambition."

After having spent so much of her life hiding her feelings and keeping a strong face for those around her, first her father, then him, and now the military, she was unprepared for her reaction to his confession. Tears started to trickle down her face no matter how hard she tried to stop them and she couldn't help wrapping her arms around him from behind, remembering how he had hugged her when he heard her crying after her father died. She was finally returning the favor.

It was the second time in the last ten years that she could remember crying and he had been there for both of them.

She took a breath to make sure her words wouldn't show her emotional outpour. She still didn't want him to see her tears.

"That's the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me," she admitted earnestly, resting her head against his back. "I don't blame you; not for any of that. It was my decision to show you the secrets and my decision to join the military. Please don't belittle yourself by taking responsibility for my actions."

Like when he had hugged her four years ago, the position was almost awkward in how natural it felt. They had only just started to get really acquainted when he left for the military academy and the time he spent at her house after her father died had been an uncomfortable mixture of detached funeral planning and rekindling that amiability they once had. And yet, even after years of not staying in contact it was like they were right where they left off only time had made them less inhibited in how they spoke and acted towards each other.

She felt his hand take hold of hers as a means of reciprocating the gesture and started to pull it upwards, clutching it against his heart before moving along to his mouth. When she felt his lips against her palm, she was no longer relaxed in the embrace but brusquely alert.

That wasn't exactly a friendly gesture; especially not when he repeated the action a few more times.

She could feel him starting to turn around and she was suddenly aware that she was not wearing a shirt. Every action up until that point had felt innocent, perhaps even platonic, so she hadn't taken note of her state of undress. Her cheeks grew hot at the idea that she had been unintentionally pressing her bare torso against his back without even realizing it.

She drew back her hand that he wasn't holding and positioned it across her chest to cover her breasts, now apprehensive of his intentions.

When he faced her though, he didn't seem to pay much mind to her nakedness as he was fixated on her eyes. She was no longer crying, her appearance serious, but the tracks of her tears and the redness that remained in her eyes were visible under the soft light of the lantern. He reached out his free hand towards her face, cupping her cheek as he ran a thumb over were the tears had dried, the tips of his fingers tickling the ends of her short blonde hair. His expression was equally contemplative and sad, his brows knitted like he was thinking keenly or ready to cry himself.

He released her other hand which she instantly used to cover herself even though it was clear by now that her lack of clothing was not of any concern to him. It made her feel more comfortable however, especially as he then brought his hand to the other side of her face, cradling her head like it was something precious to be admired and protected. The situation was so foreign to her that she could do nothing but stare back at him and wait for his next move.

He bent forward and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead, breaking away with a sigh as he bowed down so they were facing each other. Her heart was beating so hard that she could barely focus and she wondered if her frenzied nerves were bare in her countenance. She had never been in such a position with a man before as her focus had always been on more important endeavors and her heart had unwillingly already been claimed. She knew what she wanted, what she was hoping for, and she was positive she would not regret it but at the same time she was afraid that her inexperience and ignorance would betray her and he would let her go and ask her to leave.

Her fears were not realized as his lips finally met hers in a searing kiss that started out with the gentlest touch as he tested the waters for her approval but quickly escalated when she showed no signs of moving away from him. Her arms that were covering her front inadvertently provided a barrier from him getting too close to her body. Her mind could hardly process this: Roy Mustang, the first boy she ever fell for and only one she truly cared about, was kissing her with a kind of fiery passion she never would have imagined could be directed towards her.

_But why?_

He had never shown any particular romantic interest in her before and while she knew her father had implied that he would not approve of Roy risking his status as his apprentice to pursue his master's daughter, she had always hoped that the threat wouldn't have stopped him if he really liked her. But he had always been very dedicated to whatever he thought would be for the greater good and if it meant pushing something like aside a potential relationship, she knew he would do it.

But what if that wasn't it at all. She knew he would never try to use her but the idea that he was finally expelling all his suppressed misery about the war and how he had treated her by taking solace in her body did not sound unlikely. And if that was the case, she hoped that she would have the dignity to deny him.

With his hands already holding her face he was able to tilt her head back, allowing him better access to finally work his way into her mouth. She let out a slight gasp at the unexpected intrusion that provided him more room to explore her further. She tentatively tried to reciprocate with careful strokes in return, still cautious of his motivations.

When he broke away from her, a tiny whine left her throat in protest that she was unable to stifle as he rested his head on her shoulder and wrapped his arms around her, holding her as closely as he could with the obstruction of her arms still in place.

"I've wanted this, you, for so long," he confessed, pressing his warm lips lovingly to her neck.

If he hadn't been holding her so tightly, she was certain she could have fallen over from the weight of the declaration.

When he moved away from her, the shock must have been evident on her face because he tried to feign a smile that read as blatantly forced when the fear of rejection was burning so undoubtedly in his dark eyes. He placed a hand on her crossed arms, the question of her response hanging in the air.

She didn't say anything, couldn't if she tried, as much as she wanted to tell him that she felt the same way, so instead she did the only thing she could: she lowered her arms as a sign of submission, laying herself bare before him.

In an instant she was being pulled flush against his firm body as his mouth met hers again, this time with her more prepared. She ran her fingers through his dark hair, stiff from the cheap shampoo the military supplied them with, as she tried to take control, having learned quickly from before. Her other hand boldly reached under the hem of his undershirt, running up his torso and feeling the muscle definition that still lingered there in spite of his clear weight loss since arriving in Ishval. She could hear him let out a slight groan in approval.

Her dance with control was stalled however, and she shivered at the foreign sensation of one of his hands being placed right above her bellybutton and moving slowly upwards, cupping one of her breasts in his warm hand.


	4. Consuming Fires

**Author's Note:** Content Warning. (Although in all honesty, this is a pretty unsexy sex scene. I wouldn't have written it if it didn't supply necessary plot elements so it probably comes off fairly clinical.)

* * *

><p>She was thinner than he remembered as a result of months out in the field; the curves of her body unfortunately less pronounced than when she was younger from the weight loss but some of the muscle she had probably built in the academy was still in tack on her arms. Her fingers that he remembered once as being soft and elegant were now calloused, dry, and cracked as they curiously ran up under his shirt and across his front. Her hair was still short as it had been but it was shaggy like she needed to get it cut and dull and stiff from the soap they had to use. In spite of the shower they had all been allotted that day, he kept feeling grains of sand on her body that he knew from experience were impossible to fully get rid of. Her big, brown eyes looked tired and baggy like she never slept right with the underlying look of the killer she had become.<p>

And he thought she was the most beautiful women he had ever seen.

For years he had tried to deny to himself that he had any feelings for Riza Hawkeye outside of a desire for friendship and a strong respect for her. Master Hawkeye had all but outright said that he didn't want him to pursue her after he had noticed them talking more than they had when they were younger, afraid that a relationship would distract him from his studies and, if it ended badly, might result in him choosing to leave the estate. Likewise, he tried not to think of her that way but it became harder the more he talked to her.

When he left for the military academy he thought it would be a solution to his feelings and although he did try dating and would even go periods of time without thinking of her at all, every once in a while he would get a letter from her and be reminded of what he was missing.

When he had last seen her after her father had died, he had given her his information, hoping that she would contact him, thinking that if she did it would be some kind of sign (even though he didn't believe in such things) that she was still meant to be a part of his life in some way. Her father had asked him to look after her but he knew she would be able to get by on her own and when she never called or wrote, he assumed she had found that better life she always wanted outside of her restrictive upbringing. He had tried sending a letter to the Hawkeye estate to see if she was still there but the letter came back with the message that the house had been vacated and he decided that it was time to try to move on. He didn't know where she was and she didn't need him.

His sign had come four years late after they had both had time to grow independently and somehow have their lives fall apart in the same way because of each other.

But now that they had found each other again, he knew he wasn't going to let her disappear from his life no matter what role she played in it and he already had an idea on how to make it happen.

He planned to tell her these things but now was not the time. The world had already ended, he thought, and he had played a role in its annihilation. For now they were suspended in nothing. They were nowhere, a land destroyed that could barely retain its name. She was no one: no longer Riza but he refused to believe that she was only Hawkeye. And there were no rules to bind them. Outside the tent was anarchy spanned of the relief to the end of oppressive government control on these soldier's lives in one little way. And there was no one to tell them to stop, to oppose or object. In that moment there was no foreseeable future so it seemed like he had an endless supply of moments to tell her all those truths. For now he wanted to lose every shred of harsh reality in her embrace that he had longed for for so long.

Her hands against him were cool and refreshing, his own skin powerfully warm by nature and he could not help but want to feel more of her and that soothing touch. Her hands shook as they explored, a victim of the temperature, the pain, or the circumstances; he couldn't tell which but he decided not to question it if she didn't voice a complaint. She had taken the next step forward after he kissed her and she hadn't pulled away from him. That was all that mattered.

He ran a hand over her stomach, able to feel her ribcage distinctly under her skin and a bit of raised, scarred flesh that brought up a memory from a few weeks ago of her saying that a bullet had grazed her. Reminded again of the hardships she has had to face over the last few months he protectively tried to pull her even closer as he moved his hand up to take one of her breasts. He could feel her shoulders flinch as if she had been unprepared but she let out an uncharacteristic strained whimper and arched her body towards him as he ran his thumb over the peak until it had hardened.

Surprised but intrigued by the sound, he kissed his way down her neck to her other nipple and drew it into his mouth, sucking gently. She cried out again, louder this time before cutting herself short by snapping her lips together as if she suddenly remembered that there were people outside, even if they were likely too preoccupied to notice. She clutched his t-shirt until the fabric balled up in her hands and he quickly broke away from her to remove it and toss it to the side. Before she could get too generous a look at him without that particular piece of clothing in the way, he was bending down to take the opposite nub into his mouth, his hand reaching up to cup her other breast.

When he drew away from her she sucked in a breath that she appeared to have been nervously holding the whole time and he had a passing thought of whether or not she has done this sort of thing before. She was very pretty and smart and there was no way she hadn't had at least a few guys trying to court her back at the academy. The thought made him feel ill and irrationally jealous. He didn't want to think of her with another man, looking at him with the same look she was giving him now, but at the same time he would have liked to know if this was all new to her just so that he could make her feel more comfortable if it was. He had to begrudgingly admit that he was going to have to improvise a bit himself and it might make things easier to know her stance.

He also hoped she wasn't nervous because she doubted his intentions. He had heard that a lot of the men were trying to track down female soldiers that night to use them as a method of escapism like the alcohol in their veins. That wasn't what he wanted. He could never escape the war and he would spend the rest of his life making up for it but it had brought her back to him. He wanted to remember everything and he hoped she could tell that what he needed was not a warm body but her.

But he didn't want to ask any of these things, admittedly fearful of the answers. Not when her eyes were watching him in thrilled anticipation for his next move, her lips parted slightly in a way that should not have been as sensual as it was.

He placed his hands on the waist of her pants and glanced up at her for confirmation. Her expression was clear, almost a guarded pleading.

_Please do it._

Like him, she had not bothered with wearing the superfluous cape portion of the uniform with the relaxed regulations so his hands went straight for the button of her pants. He lowered himself to his knees and pressed his mouth to her stomach; his eyes staring up at her as he blindly unbuttoned and unzipped them, letting them fall to the ground.

She stood before him for a moment in just her regulation underwear, a plain pair of women's briefs with a little green dragon in the corner to indicate that they were military issued, before stepping out of her pants and kicking them to the side. He couldn't help but admire her legs and how in spite of her malnutrition, they were still shapely and toned and thankfully unmarred by the war. He ran his hands over her calves, feeling rough hairs from being unable to shave in the warzone, and drew her closer to him until his mouth was against her torso again. He placed open-mouthed kisses against her skin, gradually moving lower so he could dip his tongue into her belly button, while his hands massaged higher up to her muscular thighs. She let out a cry of shock and threaded her fingers through his hair to find stability.

When he had reached the band of her final covering, he looked up at her to see her breathing heavily in anticipation, a fire in her eyes unlike any he could create. To test her reaction, he placed a kiss over her center, hearing her let out a shaky sigh and feeling the dampness that had gathered there. He was already having a hard time ignoring the tightness of his own pants; the physical manifestation of her desire for him made yanking off the garment even easier and he ended up letting out a heavy groan when she was finally fully naked before him.

"Riza."

Her name escaped his lips in a low moan and he could feel her body shiver as he ran his hands up her legs again, reaching around to cup her behind in his hands and pull her closer again until she could feel his hot breath over her entrance.

Her eyes were wide as he moved one of his hands to her front, running it slowly down her slit. Her breath hitched. Taking that as a sign to move forward, he used his fingers to spread her lips and he suddenly had a hard time breathing himself as he realized how slick and swollen she was.

He leaned forward, tracing the same path his fingers had with his tongue and he felt her grip on his hair tighten in a way that was equally painful and gratifying and it was becoming hard for him to be the one who was supposed to remain calm. Although he had to admit that in spite of her apparent nerves, she had been able to remain mostly quiet and composed and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to hear her lose herself in a moment of bliss that he had caused her.

Without warning he ducked back between her legs, his tongue delving inside her, tasting her and she let out a loud moan that she was unable to hold back. Her grip on his hair tightened again but he ignored it, continuing to search deeper until her muscles tensed, indicating a sweet spot. In an effort to pleasure her further, he reached one of his hands around to stimulate her clit, slowly running his finger up until she let out a cry of confirmation. She was becoming more vocal than he would have imagined her being. He could see her more tight-lipped, trying to maintain her stern face, but he thought this might have just been a testament to how unprepared she was. He could imagine having to encourage her to speak more next time. And there would be a next time.

Her breathing was becoming shallow, her toes curling until she was slumped over him and he was holding up the majority of her weight in his one hand. He knew she was close and for a moment he was going to let her finish, but then he realized in the way she was positioned it would be difficult to see her face and he pulled away from her. He needed to see her when she came. She was still leaning forward with a look of frustration as he got off the floor, catching her in his arms.

He kissed her then, her hands moving impatiently down towards his pants and he was surprised by her sudden initiative. The lightest brush of her hand against his clothed erection made him suck in a breath and he was reminded that somehow he had lasted this long without just throwing her down on the bed. Her touch became more forceful but still torturing and his hand eagerly grabbed hers, placing it higher, over the button of his pants. She broke the kiss to look down at what she was doing and pulled down his pants and underwear with the same careful but sure attitude she approached everything and he kicked them off his ankles, pulling her into another kiss, this time with no fabric to separate them.

Wanting things to progress but remembering to take caution, he swung her around so that he was standing with his back facing the bed and started to walk backwards towards it, not breaking the kiss until he came to the edge of the cot.

Taking a step away from her, he crouched down onto the floor and pulled out a small green tin with the white Amestris dragon on it from under the bed: a military-issued condom tin.

Earlier on in the war, before it had been declared genocide, the medics had surreptitiously carried and distributed them to soldiers who requested them as a precaution against diseases and pregnancies that could lead to more complications for the government. There had apparently been a slew of women who had forsaken Ishvala in favor of making some money off the aggravated soldiers far away from their significant others and craving a woman for the night. Female soldiers had been scarce in the beginning of the war but the idea of keeping them from illegitimate pregnancies that could force them to leave the field had also been in the minds of those who allowed the condom tins. When the war had progressed however, distribution had stopped in spite of there being more female soldiers than ever in combat, to discourage sex with Ishvalan women and help the military's tighter budgets. However, some soldiers still had a tin or two in their tents as a symbol of how long they had been fighting.

He had obviously entered the war long after they stopped supplying them. The tin he held in his hand had actually belonged to Hughes who had stolen it fresh from another soldier as a joke. A little while ago they had been talking and Hughes had brought up Riza, saying again that he didn't believe that she meant as little to Roy as he pretended. Although he had insisted that their relationship wasn't like that, Hughes humorously offered him the condom tin, saying that he wouldn't need it since he had a soon-to-be-fiancée back home and that he wouldn't want the potential for a good woman for Roy to be lost by a lack of appropriate equipment. Roy had protested of course but ended up taking the tin to shut him up, saying that one of his men might need it.

He pushed Maes' smug "I was right" face out of his mind as he sat down on the bed and rolled it on, looking up at her face, fervent and dazed but intrigued by his actions. When he was finished he took her hand in his, giving it a light tug and she bent over him, lips meeting as she straddled him on the bed, the best position for her burned back.

Wordlessly he broke away from her and asked if he could continue. She nodded, bracing herself above him and grasping his shoulders tightly. He entered her quickly and her body immediately stiffened in a way that was wonderfully painful for him.

Although there was no barrier to break, everything was clear from the cry she made, the expression she wore, the way her nails dug into his back.

"I'm so sorry," he murmured, trying to remain still, kissing her cheek as he moved his hands from her hips up to stroke her hair. "I didn't know."

_Although I should have guessed._

"It's okay," she said breathlessly. "I'll just . . ."

She moved her hips experimentally and they both moaned loudly. She stopped again, taking a deep breath. Another advantage the position allotted was that she was in control and although it was maddening for him, he hoped it would make her more at ease.

She shifted again, slowly picking up a rhythm as he brought her lips back to his and reached down to grip her hips again, moving encouragingly with her. She was moving at such a leisurely pace he had to resist the urge to move her to his desired speed but he reminded himself that what she needed was more important than what he wanted.

As she got more adjusted her pace increased finally and he groaned, thrusting up into her as much as he could in his position as he took her breasts in his hands.

"Riza," he called out like he was trying to get her attention through her haze. "Riza, say my name."

His words hadn't quite brought her to a halt but she did slow as she tried to focus on him through blurry amber eyes, questioning the appeal. He gave her an earnest look before lowering his head faintly in humiliation. He hadn't meant it to be some kind of ego-inflating request. He had never heard her call him by his first name, not in all the years he had known her, and he wanted some kind of assurance that right now she wasn't thinking of him as a mister or a major.

He bucked up against her in an effort to redirect her attention and she sighed a longing, "Roy" that nearly made him lose it as she started moving feverishly again and he knew he was not misunderstood. He wished he could always hear her say his name like that.

His eyes were on her face, contorted in ecstasy as she rode him desperately, clearly close to her end as he was. In an effort to get her off first, he reached down to rub her clit forcibly and she instantly came with a broken cry, the ripples of her orgasm driving him to finish shortly after.

As they collapsed into each other and both tried to catch their breath, he pulled her into a hug, feeling her heart pounding against his as he buried his face in the space where her neck and shoulder met.

_This is the kind of serenity that can only exist after the world has ended_, he thought to himself: _the unsuppressed feelings of two damaged people_.


	5. Concurrent Fires

Her eyes were closed as she leaned against him, his strong arms wrapped around her lower back as her body started to calm and the sweat on their skin began to cool. As blissful as the experience and their current position might have been, she was hesitant to compare the moment to a fantasy. She may have thought many times about what it would be like to be with Roy Mustang like this but never had her dreams been peppered with such harsh realities. With blood no longer rushing in her ears she could hear the cries of the sloppy soldiers not far from their tent; the pain in her back making an appearance again that distracted from the delightful tremors that still radiated through her.

At that stab of remembrance a rush of thoughts flooded her head, a full understanding of what she had just done finally coming to the front of her mind, his arms suddenly feeling constricting instead of comforting. She grasped onto his shoulders and pushed down on them in an effort to bring herself up, taking the pressure off her weak legs. Startled, he drew his head upright with a questioning look as she got off of his lap and crawled towards the edge of the bed, away from him, and bent her legs in front of her protectively.

He followed her with his eyes until she was out of his line of sight and concerned himself instead with the contraceptive, removing it slowly and then walking over to where his canteen was to rinse it out and take a drink of water.

_How could I have let things get so confusing?_

The last time she had seen him before they met on the battlefield, she had made a promise to herself and she couldn't help but feel that she had broken it.

During the time he had been at his military academy and she was left alone with her father she had written him letters, nothing too special, mainly just short updates on how things were there and well wishes for him, and he sparsely wrote back on even shorter bits of paper. She had tried to concern herself with more practical things than pining for a sign that he still felt connected to the Hawkeye Estate but she couldn't keep from wondering what was truly happening with him at school that he wasn't conveying in words. They had lived together for years; didn't that count for something?

Somehow, seeing him in his uniform when he returned to their house right before her father died had made her finally realize the truth: he had his own life that was now separate from them. He had no time for some little girl who he had lived with only as a means to educate himself further for his future goals.

At the time she really didn't have any goals of her own. The things she had wanted then had been simple: food, shelter, books to keep up her education with, that her father wouldn't overwork himself, maybe the affection of a certain boy (not a priority but a want). She had lived her entire life defined by taking on responsibilities of and to other people, mostly her father, and when she no longer had to care for him, she had to find her own path, which she would have to do without any remains of the old one. Roy Mustang didn't need her and didn't want her and although he offered to help her, she knew she would have to do it alone.

It wouldn't do to say that his own dreams had not influenced her decision to join the military, but she really did join for herself and not for him. She had spent her life doing things for other people mostly because it was required of her; if she didn't do it, no one would. Joining the military had seemed like a nobler path to take; doing things for other people not because there is no one else to take on the job but because it is the right thing to do.

During her second year at her military academy she had investigated him in the school's records and found that he had passed the State Alchemist exam and was stationed in East City but she didn't do anything else with the information and tried to forget about him. She told herself the only reason she researched it in the first place was because the secrets to flame alchemy were the only thing her father ever entrusted her with and it was her duty to keep tabs on their use. She may have tried to be independent but she was still tied to him both because of her father and because of how she felt towards him, a feeling that remained dormant until someone would innocently ask why she wasn't interested in dating.

Now he had released her of that obligation with the burns on her back. Unfortunately, this could not undo the fact that she was responsible for everything he did with the alchemy but she was pretty sure that although nothing had been fixed, there was really nothing worse he could do that he had not already done.

She knew that he did not lie, at least never to her, and that everything he had said about his own feelings towards her was true but where exactly were they supposed to go from here?

They still had their separate lives.

After everything the war had done to her, again she questioned where she was going, whether she would enter into a military contract and be relocated to a base most likely already selected for her or graduate from the academy and do something else. She could stay in the corrupt system and try to find some way to change it although she wasn't sure how or she could run from it and try to pretend it didn't happened although she knew forgetting was impossible. Either way it would be unreasonable to think that he would stop everything he had built up for himself because of one night of rekindling long stifled emotions with a girl from his past.

And he still wasn't looking at her as he put the condom back in the tin and sat on the edge of the narrow cot.

"This didn't happen," she declared with finality.

At long last, he looked over at her with an expression of perplexity.

"What?" he asked, reaching out to take her hand in concern. She quickly moved it out of his reach protectively. She didn't need to be questioning her decision right now. Something told her that if she let him get too sentimental, she would have a hard time playing the rational role that she always adopted when they were together to combat his own occasional moments of emotionally driven behavior.

"It would be easier for both of us if we forget that this night ever happened," she clarified, her head down as she stared at her thighs, inadvertently looking like the picture of vulnerability.

She waited, trying not to count the time that passed in silence, but when he didn't say anything for a full minute, she raised her head and saw the hurt look on his face. She lowered her legs and furrowed her brows, not prepared for this contingency. She was being practical. Was he really considering rearranging his life to accommodate her? Did he think what had just happened meant nothing to her?

"But I do . . ." She couldn't finish her sentence of reassurance. While he had bared his soul to her, she had only spoken in actions and now she wondered if he had misunderstood.

"No. You're right," he said finally, his broken face turning sure, almost suspiciously severe and business-like. "There's actually something I wanted to ask you."

She sucked in a nervous breath, preparing herself for any number of questions that she would be unable to answer correctly. Questions about her feelings? Back-handed judgments of her behavior? Inquiries about her future? Why she thought any of this was a good idea?

"I've been thinking that the only way anything about this country is going to change, the only way another Ishval will never happen again, is if the government's power is in different hands."

She nodded in agreement, relived but confused as to why he had pulled out such a non sequitur of a comment. She was admittedly disappointed that the discussion of what had just happened had ended so abruptly. In the recesses of her mind she was clinging to the idea that he might have a plan for them that didn't end with them parting ways forever after that night. Could he really so coldly dismiss her as she had, truthfully, just tried to do to him?

_I deserve that_, she mused glumly, as he went on talking.

"I've decided that I will try to become fuhrer of this country and restore it to its previous democracy but I can't do it without support."

He looked at her with the upmost sternness.

"If you end up choosing a military path after everything you have seen I would like you on my team. Selfishly, I hope you do because I honestly don't think I could get to the top without you right with me. I wouldn't be alive now if it weren't for you and I trust you in a way I don't think I could ever trust anyone else. You're brilliant, you're a damn good shot, and I truthfully don't want you to disappear from my life again after tomorrow."

Her eyes widened at the confession, his second of the night, and she didn't know how to react. She had been wrong about so much. He did want her in his life and he was willing to make accommodations to have that. A small smile graced her lips for a mere second before the reality of the situation hit her and she was unable to stop herself from speaking her thought out loud.

"If I did choose to follow you, this really couldn't have happened," she murmured forlornly, the evidence of how she truly felt laid clear in her tone.

"No," he agreed with similar remorse. "We would have to maintain the most professional exterior possible: no first names, no talking about our history to others, no use of that four letter l-word."

"Right," she approved quickly.

A second of silence let the words sink in and she suddenly realized what he meant. She looked at him intently with his dark, furrowed brows and a sigh on his lips and she realized that this was it. She would have to choose the military and she would have to follow him. Trying to lead a normal life, pursuing a normal relationship with him was unfeasible. The only way she, and he, could atone for everything that had happened during the war was to fix the system and they could only do it together as a superior and a subordinate.

_Maybe we never had separate lives_.

"There are things more important than the two of us," she admitted almost begrudgingly, wanting to touch him but not yet ready to destroy the veneer of professional discussion until everything had been clarified.

"Yes," he said with a solemn nod. "Think it over. I will put in a request for you either way the second I get back to base."

As if there was any doubt in her mind now.

She could trust him.

She would follow him.

Assist him however he needed.

And one day he would lead the country to revolution.

He had thought his ambition ruined her but now it would save them both.

And perhaps then they could finally make peace with their sins.

But that time was so far in the future, she could barely imagine it now. All she wanted to see until morning was him because tomorrow things would go back to the way they were when she arrived on the battlefield. She didn't think it would be too hard to go back to pretending that he was merely an officer she was friendly with, even though the truth held so many more layers, but if she was to spend years of her life tied to a cause instead of him, she had one selfish request of her own.

"Roy."

The name felt strange on her tongue: intimate, almost loving. The first and last time she had said it had felt the same way. It was time to say it while she still was able and she saw the way it affected him by the heat in his eyes.

"If I do follow you and this is the last time we can be together like this, then can I ask you something?" she asked tentatively.

"Anything."

She knew he was completely serious but her request was simple.

"Can I stay here until sunrise?"

He answered by finally taking her hand in his.


	6. Cumbersome Fires

When the barest flecks of daylight started to fall over the desert, she found herself wide awake in spite of the very few hours of sleep she had managed to acquire. It was strange how her body had become so responsive to signals. When the faintest light or sound occurred when she knew she was supposed to be alert, she could jump into action without feeling any of the lethargic effects of just waking and yet, at the same time, if she knew she could sleep safely everything from the afternoon sun to bombs exploding would have no effect on her.

But her mind knew that she wasn't supposed to be here and that she wouldn't have long to get back to her own tent before the officers started waking the troops in order to work on finishing the lengthy process of exiting the land so they could all get back to their bases before nightfall.

She had fallen asleep on her side, the scarred portion of her back as far from the cot as possible, and while she could acknowledge that the pain had been making a strong comeback since the medicine had worn off, her mind felt numb, overpowering the pain. Getting back to her own tent unseen was the most important issue at the moment and she relished in the performance of such a simple task after so many complications.

Her eyes had fallen first on him also lying on his side, towards her but with a clear gap of space between them so they were not touching. His dark hair was mussed and falling in front of his closed eyes and his hand was clutching the pillow she had been lying on even though his own head was resting on the mattress. She vaguely recalled him insisting that she take his pillow in the shadowy hours before they drifted off. Even though he was asleep he looked far from content, his forehead creased and his hand balled into a fist.

She wondered if he was dreaming memories.

For the briefest moment she wondered what it would be like to always see him when she opened her eyes in the morning but she quickly pushed the thought to the back of her mind. Such thoughts would do no use for her now, not that they had ever been helpful. If anything they were worse now; a desire actually was a reality albeit one that she could not attain.

With the least movement possible, she slid herself off the cot and walked around to where her clothes were: her boots, coat, and shirt in a neat pile with her less neat pants and underwear kicked next to them.

She put on her underwear and pants first, trying to smooth out the conspicuous wrinkles that might come off as suspicious on someone as meticulous as she was. She looked over at the pile of her other clothes and realized that it would be less painful to dress if she first used some of the ointment he had put on her wounds last night.

She found the tube on the ground with the bucket, cloths, and condom tin. Squeezing a generous amount onto her fingers, she tried to stretch her arm around to apply it and found that it required more than a bit of gymnastics as parts of the burn were in the theoretical unreachable portion of her back. It would be hard to treat it herself but she really didn't have any other choice.

When she had done the best she could with the cream, she put on her bra, not hooking the back as she was only wearing it in order to transport it; it would cause her healing scars a great deal of discomfort otherwise. Gently, she pulled on her undershirt, wincing slightly as it rubbed unfavorably against her back, and put on her long coat, slipping the tube of burn cream into her pocket.

She pulled on her socks quickly and shoved her feet into her boots, not paying too much attention to how they looked as time seemed to be barreling down on her after spending so much care dressing her torso. She ran her fingers through her short hair in order to smooth it down and looked back at the man on the cot. She thought about going over to his sleeping form, having one last touch of endearment before they adopted their new military roles, but she decided it would be better not to.

She thought she would stay in that tent forever if she could, far from normal society that she had trepidations about returning to. It was a living nightmare to walk the desert but being stuck there felt like a fitting penance she would gladly accept for what she had done to the land and its people. And, although she knew she did not deserve it, being stuck in this moment of time where she could be with him, someone who understands her and this situation, without rules . . .

But that was the lazy and selfish answer, she knew, as it would be similarly indulgent to run her fingers through his hair one last time. When her schooling was over, he would be her superior and she would not be permitted to think such things, her sole focus being his safety and the furthering of his ideas.

She lifted back the flap of the tent, scanning the dunes for any men who might see her leave and, finding the land vacant, she left the tent without stealing a glance behind her.

When she got back to her tent on the other side of the camp, thankfully only passing by unconscious men, she found it to be just as empty as she left it as most of her things had already been packed away.

Soon the bells and the music would sound and she would need to be ready.

The rest of her uniform was laid out on the end of the bed for her and she slowly started putting it all on. What she had been wearing when she entered was barely a uniform: a white undershirt, blue pants, combat boots, and a white coat. She could have been anyone, a civilian. Now she draped herself in the military adornments: the cape, the jacket, the spats, and the holster.

When she was done, she sat down on her cot and sighed, sadly resting her head in her hands.

This was the path she had chosen and she had to see it through.


	7. Ceaseless Fires

"Cadet Hawkeye!" he shouted out across the throngs of soldiers carrying supplies to the trucks that would lead them away from Ishval.

Recognizing the voice, she looked up from where she had been staring into the sand again. She had finished all the packing assignments delegated to her a lot earlier than her superiors had apparently predicted and since there were no other jobs left, she was given permission to rest until everyone would start getting onto the trucks themselves. She could tell from what the soldiers still working were carrying that the army was almost cleared out of the desert, nothing but destruction remaining as a souvenir. She wasn't the only one to be finished as many others were simply standing around. Most, she noted, were trying not to stare at the man standing on the east side wall with his conspicuously decorated uniform, eye patch, and sword, overlooking the progress with pride. He really did hold himself with an air of importance, she had to admit, but she could feel only disgust for him. He had been the cause of all of this.

The voice she had heard calling her name had cut through all the quiet resentment and sadness that was surfacing, feelings that she had been trying to hide all morning by focusing on her work.

"Captain Hughes," she said, standing up and saluting him. Protocol was back in play.

She tried not to wonder where his friend was.

He jogged over to where she was standing, a tight smile on his face like he was trying to be optimistic in spite of himself. That was something she had always appreciated about his presence. While spending off time with Roy over the past few months had given her a confusing mixture of deep pain brought on by how he had ended up on the field and immense warmth and security that she always got from him, Maes had always been nothing but practical joy. He always knew how to lighten the mood and he knew when he should and shouldn't.

His mood currently reflected that of most of the soldiers around them: tired and quietly content. While the night before was all about either celebrating or facing demons, this day was full of acceptance or at least the appearance of it.

"How are you fairing after last night?" she asked, noting that he seemed to look relatively free of the morning after effects of drinking.

Hughes groaned a bit and rubbed his forehead.

"I'm a bit tired but honestly, I'm surprised at how well I turned out this morning. I could have done without the constant nightmares but after I saw you I pretty much just headed back to my tent, drank a bucket of water and fell asleep. Heck, I'm doing better than you it seems. Have an interesting night?" he asked curiously with a quirked brow and a slight grin.

For a second her blood ran cold and she wondered if he had told Hughes what had happened. When she regained her senses a moment later she realized that, no, he would never do something so risky to his career even if Hughes was his best friend.

Then she wondered if he had heard anything. Perhaps he hadn't just gone back to his tent and had actually lingered around long enough to find something out? But it really didn't seem in his nature to not be completely honest about something like that. If he knew anything definitively he would probably be bothering her about it in more specific terms.

There had to be something in her appearance that tipped him off. She didn't have a way of looking at herself but she was sure she had dark circles under her eyes from the minimal sleep she had gotten and it was likely that she didn't smell too fresh either. She had noticed from the beginning that he had an uncanny knack for reading people and it must have been spelled out on her face that something happened in his tent that she was not willing to talk about.

"Not in particular," she lied, the words sounding guilty to her ears. She didn't lie and she realized now that she might have to start.

Hughes raised an eyebrow, evidently suspicious, but before he could say anything further, the man she had been thinking about walked up to them stiffly, dirt on his uniform as evidence that he had probably just finished assisting in the clean up and delegating assignments to his men.

"Cadet Hawkeye," he acknowledged casually, greeting her with a nod in her direction.

"Major Mustang," she replied, saluting properly.

_It's so easy_.

"What are you two talking about?" he asked straightforwardly, clearly wanting to join in.

"Oh, we were just discussing how you should escort Riza to my wedding!" Hughes blurted out before she could get a word in.

"What?" he spat out before he could stop himself, glancing over at her, her mouth hanging open and her cheeks flushed. Apparently he had remembered inviting her last night but she certainly didn't remember those particular stipulations.

"Well if you don't want to I could just let you both fend for yourselves but I think it would be a lot easier for both of you if you just came together. Riza probably won't know anyone else there other than you so it would be nice for her to have a knowledgeable escort," Hughes gave him an almost devious smile and he suddenly wondered if Hughes knew anything he wasn't supposed to.

"No, I would be fine escorting her. I would rather go with a friend than a date anyway," he said quickly, nodding to her in as affable a way as possible in hopes that Hughes would take note of his wording.

_And a friend is the absolute most I can be right now_.

"Thank you, Major," she said with a small, grateful smile at both his acceptance of the request and his smart choice of words.

"That's settled then!" Hughes exclaimed, clapping his hands together at his success.

"Now you just need Gracia to say yes," Mustang joked, earning him a shove from the taller man.

Seeing him like this, the way she remembered him, was ultimately what made it hard to pretend that he meant as little to her as everyone was eventually supposed to think. When they were professional, it was like putting on a comfortable, concealing mask but when they got friendly like this, she felt exposed, a victim to her emotions.

But she would school her feelings, about him and about this war, as she had schooled her body in military school and her mind in her self-education.

"I need to report to my commanding officer," she interrupted, breaking up the brief moment of happiness in order to make her exit; another lie although a lot smaller in scale.

"Major Mustang, Captain Hughes," she said with a proper salute to both of them, "Have a safe trip home."

"Look for my invitation," Hughes said with his usual stationary wave.

"It's been an honor working with you," Mustang said formally, offering his hand to her.

She tried not to be surprised by his shift back into his professional attitude as she took his hand in hers and shook it firmly. She knew now how much he meant what he said.

"Maybe this won't be the last time," she replied, mimicking his tone.

The corners of his lips curled up slightly in hope, an expression that lasted after she had released his hand and walked away, mentally repeating a new mantra to herself that she knew was not a lie, a mantra he contemplated himself as he watched her disappear into the crowds.

_It will get easier_.


End file.
